Chapter Nineteen - Evangeline
What the fuck does he want from me? Some kind of emotional breakdown? I scoff. Literally scoff. Because that’s never gonna happen. I might be afraid of some stupid things in this world, but I am not a coward. How dare he call me that?
He has no clue who he’s dealing with. I have played for queens and kings. I have played for rock stars and opera singers. I have played for presidents and ruling heads of criminal organizations.
I am no coward.
I grab the notebook and pen from the kitchen and then settle on the window-facing couch back in the ballroom and think.
He wants a personal story about why I’m here.
Fine. Let’s see what he thinks about this.
Have you ever felt like a number?
Just a number on a line, at a time
when no one else is there to see you stumble?
Anonymous child with preposterous guile
and an innocence that wants to take you under?
I scribble the words down. Furiously fast. Trying to get them out and get this over with.
Well, I have.
That was me.
Dressed up pretty.
Rolling waves of ribbon lace
and lights above me on the stage.
And then the nothing.
The great big nothing
as you walk away and try your best
to burn the joy you’ll never know
like a brand on your mind
echoing like a cheer
to the fear
of being everything you will ever be
at the age of eight.
I am just a number.
That’s why I’m here.
Take that, stranger. Mr. X. Whoever you are. You want something from me? You want words that have meaning? There they are.
I get up, clutching the notebook with both hands, leaving the pen behind like a murder weapon, and take it to the kitchen.
Stare at it.
Change my mind sixteen or eighty-three times.
Then feel the heat of anger well up inside me and turn my back on it.
On all of it.
I go upstairs—and not because he told me to, either. I go because this day is over now and I’m tired. So fucking exhausted, climbing up to the master bedroom on the third floor almost wipes me out.
I left the house today, I remind myself as I make it to the top and stand in front of the closed double doors. It was only the backyard, but I left. And yesterday I was hedging my bets on even staying here at all.
I count that as a win as I reach for the doorknobs and push the door in.
The nightlight is on next to the bed. Moon glow dances across the ceiling in fuzzy approximations of stars.
I let out a breath, feeling a sense of calm and relief that I haven’t felt in… I have no idea. Decades, I think.
And it strikes me as so strange—that being up here in some other couple’s bedroom, being virtually stalked by a stranger who has very unorthodox ideas of what his job is here, is calming.
How is that possible? How does it even make sense?
That’s when I see the note on the pillow.
I walk over and pick it up. The paper is different this time. Thicker. Special. But the handwriting is the same sharp printing, and my name is the same, and the little e decoration underneath.
I look up at the nearest camera. “Why are you doing this?”
When he doesn’t answer, I look around for an intercom and find it behind one of the double doors.
I press the button to speak—“Are you there?”—and startle when I hear my question echo through other rooms.
Nothing but silence in return.
So I look down at the note in my hand and wonder what’s next. Should I even open it?
It’s a stupid question. I almost rip it apart trying to open it.
Congratulations, it says. Just a few more commands to follow and then you can close your eyes and dream about tomorrow.
Look up at the camera. Take your clothes off.
Slowly. Never breaking eye contact.
Get in bed naked. There’s a blindfold under the pillow. Put it on. Lie still.
If you do that I’ll come say good night.
But you have to promise not to peek, Evangeline. You have to stay in the dark and let me do whatever I want.
I let out another breath, but this time nothing about me is calm. My heart is galloping inside my chest. My head is pounding with excitement as blood rushes to my brain. And my stomach flutters with some foreign feeling I might never have felt before.
Reaching for the nearest wall, I bow my head and breathe through the spell this stranger has cast.
What to do?
I’m practically panting, imagining what following this order will do to my life.
Will everything unravel?
Or is this… experience just what I need to put myself back together?
It makes no sense. I realize that. It’s nothing but a request for sex.
Right?
But isn’t that what people do these days? Anonymous sex?
It’s right up my alley, so to speak. I mean… I’m the one who won’t know anything, but as I have determined after one very expensive therapy, I’m seeking the anonymous. Or was. Anyway. I want to be seen now. But what’s one more night, right?
I take a deep breath and turn around, looking straight up at the camera. “I want to see this Jordan guy. I think you made him up. It’s some kind of trick.”
Silence from the intercom and the camera doesn’t even have the decency to blink a red light at me to let me know he’s paying attention.
“I said,” I say, louder this time, “I want to meet him. Not at your leisure, but tomorrow. I need to know more about this treatment plan. What he’s doing. Whether or not this was all approved by Lucinda. Or if this is just your sick, twisted idea of mind games.”
My answer is silence.
I exhale and walk back over to the bed, the note still clutched in my hand. Balled up and scrunched.
I read it again. And again, and again, and again until I’ve got it memorized. I throw it across the room and it slides under a dresser. Disappears.
His commands cycle through my thoughts, over and over again as I wrestle with the decision that must be made.
Yes. I do what he says.
No. I don’t.
Yes, I stay in the game.
No. I forfeit.
Do I want to win? I don’t even know what that means. “I just want to play my show,” I whisper. Mostly to myself, but he probably heard me. “I just want to walk out of the house like a normal human being. I want to feel the sun on my face and laugh at people’s dumb jokes. And not be afraid. And… live. That’s all. Why does it seem so far away? Why does it all seem so hard?”
The telltale crackle of the intercom makes me look up, hopeful. But then… nothing. He doesn’t reply. Just leaves me to figure it out on my own.
I try to rationalize what’s happening. It’s treatment. All this, to the best of my knowledge, has been prescribed by my doctor. A woman who has reminded me over and over and over that she’s some know-it-all professional in the field of weird psychological phobias.
It’s a lie. Not her, or her credentials. The rationalization that’s going on here. I cannot even imagine that she knows what’s happening inside this house. And the really disturbing thing is… I’m rationalizing not calling her with the fact that I broke my phone.
I mean come on, Evangeline! You are sick! Because a normal person would walk out the door and keep going until she got home, whatever that took, and call up her therapist and demand to know just what the fuck is going on!
Sure. I have this fear of being watched. But it’s night now. I’ve already come up with an escape plan. All I’d have to do is implement it. Just leave, walk until I find a phone at a local bar or an all-night grocery store, call my building concierge, and end this madness immediately.
That might even cure me, for fuck’s sake. I mean… really. It’s a big, huge, monumental step that requires a whole lot of participation.
The intercom crackles again. Another tease, because that’s all it does.
He’s reminding me that he’s here. As if I’d forget that little detail.
Why can’t I make a decision?
Because I want to say yes even though I know I should say no.
One. Look up at the camera.
I do. I look at all of them. Holding each in my gaze for several seconds before going to the next.
Two. Take off your clothes. Slowly. Never breaking eye contact.
My hand goes to the hem of the cashmere white sweater. The sweater he told me to put on this morning. I hesitate, my heart racing with a staccato beat that makes me long for the past. For the sad nights alone where no one expected anything of me.
With much reluctance, I admit I’m still here because of the possibility of sex with a complete stranger who gets to watch me. Like a voyeur. And he’s probably jacking off right now. His hand is slowly pumping his cock, his eyes on me—only me—as I sort through the kind of person I am.
And then I just do it. I just do it. Because I’m her. That person who stays in this kind of situation because she’s turned on by it. Because she’s sick in more ways than one. And she doesn’t even care.
Why live anymore? Why live if you’re just gonna deny yourself everything? Everything. The music, the people, the pleasures.
There is no point to life if that’s all there is.
Both hands reach for my hem and the sweater comes up. I have my eyes trained on the camera directly in front of me. I only break contact for a moment when the sweater goes over my head, but my eyes return as I toss it to the floor.
I exhale as I stand up, my fingers reaching for the button on my gray slacks, and a moment later, down they fall. Pooling in a puddle of fabric at my feet. I kick off my shoes and step out. Stand there for his inspection. Looking at the faceless, blank lens like I might find answers in there.
The intercom crackles, as if to say, Keep going.
So I do. And I do it all slowly, just like he asked. Fingertips on the strap of my bra as I slide it over my shoulder. Then the other side, until the straps are loose on my upper arms and my breasts are heavy in the black lace, begging to be released.
I want to close my eyes now. Pretend I’m in the darkness and not illuminated by the glow of the child’s moon light on the bedside table. I reach behind for the clasp and then they are free. The lace drops to the floor on top of my pants, next to my sweater. My nipples are peaking rigid in the coolness, my heart thumping now. Not sharp staccato, but the hard banging of a percussionist hitting a bass drum.
I swallow hard as my fingertips find the edge of lace on my black panties and ease them over my hips.
The spot between my legs—the one that’s been neglected for so long—throbs. So much faster than my heart. A deep-seated longing that wants what it wants so badly, I’ve gone far, far past the point of no return.
I bend down, step out, never taking my gaze off his black stare from the lens, and let him look.
“Like this?” I ask, my body so ready for more, I feel a climax coming even though no one is touching me. Even though I’m not even touching myself.
It’s the watching that turns me on.
My own personal voyeur.
His own personal entertainment.
We’re both pretty sick.
I breathe deeply. Panting to keep my body from doing the unthinkable. I cannot come like this. I cannot, I cannot…
The intercom crackles once more, reminding me there’s more to do if I want my reward.
So I turn towards the bed, placing my hands and knees on the soft, down comforter, and crawl to the headboard. One hand searches under the pillow, finds a slip of silk, and pulls it out.
A man’s necktie. Black.
My blindfold.
I place it over my eyes, tying it tightly in the back, and feel an immediate relief.
I can’t see anything now.
I can pretend now.
The song of birds pipes through some speaker. Not the intercom, because there’s no crackle. The music is soft, and sweet, and reminds me of warm sunny days as I lie back on the bed, my legs straight. My arms at my side. And I wait.
Because he’s coming now and this is the signal that I’ve given him permission to do whatever he wants.
Only moments later I hear footsteps coming up the stairs just outside the open doors.
I take several shallow breaths, trying to calm myself down, but it doesn’t work. My heart is playing its own song now. A combination of quick and hard. A symphony of dark and light. Here and there. Quick, then slow, then quick, quick, quick as he enters the room and lets out a breath that I imagine is… satisfaction.
“What—”
“Shhhh,” he corrects me.
The mattress dips with his weight. His leg, or hip, or back touches my bare leg, sending an uncontrollable shiver up my whole body. My nipples, already peaked and ready, find another level of arousal when his fingertips brush lightly across one.
I respond with a pool of hot wetness between my legs and I know it’s impossible, but I feel that feeling again. The one where I think I might come. Like I’m so close and if—
“Shhhh,” he says again, his gentle caress turning into a firm squeeze of my breast to pull me back from the edge.
I’m cold, but I don’t care. So cold I begin to shiver. But he continues with the tease, his fingertips brushing back and forth across my nipple, almost flicking it, but not quite. Not hard, so soft. Too soft. So that the feeling begins to build again and I have to gulp air.
He takes one of my hands, his body turning on the bed so he can continue what he’s doing to my breast with his other hand, and he places it between his legs. Pressing my hand up against his jeans so I can feel his hard cock. He makes me rub him. Slowly, the way he’s caressing me. Back and forth as his dick grows with my insatiable desire.
His breathing is heavy now too. And I want to scream at him. Tell him to do more. Touch me everywhere. Be fast. Fuck me hard and—
“Shhhh,” he says, but this time it’s got an edge to it. Like he’s driving himself as wild as he’s driving me.
He presses my hand into his cock and I can’t stand it anymore. I squeeze him through the soft fabric of his jeans. He moans and I swear, I will just come all on my own if he—
His fingertips stop the tease at my nipple and trace a light, soft trail down to my ribs. I suck in air and scissor my legs, pressing the folds of my pussy together, searching for the sweet spot that will put me out of my misery. But his other hand is there, hard, as he pushes down on my thigh, telling me in no uncertain terms that I need to be still.
Lie still, was his last command.
And I want to obey right now. Because if he gets up and walks out—
His hand presses on my inner thigh, spreading me open.
God, yes. This is what I want. Put your mouth there, I want to scream. Put your fingers inside me. Lick me until I explode.
He leans down, his hot breath skimming across the skin of my stomach, and he kisses my belly.
Breathing is difficult for both of us now.
My chest is heaving. Up and down as I take air in and out.
I squeeze his cock as my other hand slips over my thigh and right between my legs. It bumps into his hand and I grab for it, greedily, and place him where he needs to be.
His fingers slide inside, instantly becoming slick and wet. I make him pump, in and out, and then he slips another one inside me. Then another, stretching my pussy open as he presses his face into my stomach, licking his way down until his mouth clamps around my clit and sucks.
I let go of his hand and grab his hair, pushing him into me. My hips buck up and down with the rhythm of his movements like I’m fucking him.
His hips respond too as I clutch his cock hard, massaging him through his jeans.
And then, before either of us can stop it, we grunt, and moan, and pant through the release. I come all over his fingers. He comes in his pants, the hot wet evidence leaking through the fabric as I continue to hold on to him.
I sigh, breathing hard, my legs closing on his hand and head involuntarily as the relief washes through my body in shuddering waves.
He rolls to the side, his whole body on the bed with me, but in some unknown position that I have to imagine in my mind.
I turn my body automatically into his. He kisses me on the soft spot right above my clit, then moves up my body, his legs straddling mine, his arms on either side of my head as he climbs on top of me.
God, I want him. All of him. I’m ready to go again. And his dick is still hard enough for me to feel the bulge as he rubs his hips back and forth across mine.
He lowers his head, kissing my neck, then my ear, then my cheek, and my nose, and finally my lips.
“Tomorrow,” he says, barely a whisper. “I’m gonna let you see Jordan. But only if you do as I say.”
“Can I ask him—”
“No,” he says, cutting me off. “You can watch him, Evangeline. The way I watch you. But that’s it. For now.”
He gets up, leaving my spent body trembling but still wanting more. And a moment later I know I’m alone again, because I’m cold.